Send the Dispatch (Dispatch x fem!reader)

Chapter 12: Pain Killer

For a moment, she stays curled inward, small and fragile, the vulnerability of her frame laid bare against the harshness of the world around her.

The second boy stiffens as if the world has stopped. "W-we weren't doing anything!" he squeaks, voice cracking. He takes a step back, nearly tripping over the rubber flooring. "We didn't-we didn't hurt her! We were just talking!"

"Yeah! We-we weren't hurting anyone!" the first boy adds, words tumbling out in frantic bursts.
"It-it wasn't what it looked like! We were just...just playing! Right?" He awkwardly nudges the girl with his foot. "Tell him! Tell him you were just playing!"

The little girl shakes her head violently. Tears slip past the corners of her eyes, and her small body curls inward on itself.

"Tell him!" the boy insists again, voice rising with desperation.

She stays silent. Shaken. Vulnerable.

You do not speak. You did not need to.

Your gaze, tired, sharp, colder than anger itself, locks onto them. It carries a weight that crushes the fragile armour of their bravado. The boys shrink under it, shoulders slumping, their childish bravado dissolving in an instant.

One deliberate step forward, slow, controlled, and the tension in the air tightens, presses against them, and in response, they flinch hard.

"Dude..." the second boy whispers, tugging on his friend's sleeve. "We...we should go. Now."

"But-"

"Now!" His voice cracks again, high and panicked.

You do not move again. Your jaw tightens, your shoulders square, your chest calm. Every exhale is measured, controlled. You wait. You let them feel the weight of inevitability pressing down.

When you finally speak, your voice is quiet. Soft, almost gentle, as if coaxing a frightened animal. And yet, beneath that softness is a current of authority, a promise of consequences unspoken.

"Leave."

The word settles into the air like a stone dropped into still water. Heavy. Unavoidable. Irrevocable.

The first boy hesitates only for a fraction of a second. Then he bolts, tripping slightly over the curb in his hurry. The second boy does not even look back, scrambling as he runs in the opposite direction, rubber soles sliding briefly against the pavement. Their retreating footsteps fade into the distance, swallowed by the rustling of the trees and the late-afternoon quiet.

Only then do you breathe. Slowly. Deliberately.

You turn toward the little girl, who is still kneeling, pressed against the rubber ground of the playground. Her tiny hands cradle her wrist, trembling. Her shoulders shake with the aftermath of fear. The scrapes and bruises are small, but to someone her size, they might as well be the size of mountains.

"Boys, huh?" you mutter, your voice soft, awkward in its attempt to lighten the moment. You shift from one foot to the other, feeling the strange self-consciousness of trying to comfort a child.

You are a grown adult, sure, but you have never been good at this. You have never been good at being gentle with someone so young. Being small. Being trusted.

She looks up, wide-eyed, and something in her gaze makes your stomach twist. In her eyes, your bruised, tired face and loose hoodie do not make you threatening; they make you look heroic.

Bigger than the world, safer than the trees, stronger than the currents. She sees you as a prince from a storybook, sent to save her from the cruel giants.